


Let Me Down From This Carousel

by RaiWalk



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Anduin is Tired™, Big orc BF who will stomp on anyone trying to hurt him, He wants to sleep for a decade, He'll be cuddling his big orc BF, Implied Torture, M/M, This loop can go die in a fire, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24024388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaiWalk/pseuds/RaiWalk
Summary: By the fourteenth go around, he’s pissed off.He deserves a break.
Relationships: Varok Saurfang/Anduin Wrynn
Comments: 13
Kudos: 72





	Let Me Down From This Carousel

By the fourteenth go around, he’s pissed off.

The total comes down to-- a replaced eye, a jagged scar from cheek to hip, a battle partner necklace, a ratty fur cloak, a wicked sharp and hooked dagger, a wrist rebuilt from dust, an enchanted pendant, teeth marks on his thigh, an intricate arcane glyph on the small of his back and void marks wrapping around a knee.

The ones that he has no memento of are the ones that irritate him the most. They’re the timelines entirely gone, nothing to remember them by.

No scars or marks to remind him of what went wrong in those.

No matter. He’s tired, and he deserves a break.

The clock fused to his ankle chimes three times, and the world resumes movement.

His hearthstone is always useless at the beginning, so, still irritated, he starts making his way out of the Engine of Nalak’sha.

Dodging the mogu and Ra-den has turned into a silly game by now, since he could just as easily explain his purpose, but.

They’re always _too_ helpful. Always giving him everything he needs to _save the world_.

The world can go screw itself on a cactus this time. He’s going on vacation, damn the timelines, damn the future, damn the ending of reality. The clock resets when he dies, so he might as well have some selfishness to balance out all the work he’s been doing, _alone_.

So no, he doesn’t feel like talking to overly helpful mogu.

They’re all panicking over the unscheduled activation, plus the fact that there is no visible user even though the Engine has clearly been used, as its power levels drop significantly. It will be unusable for a couple of years, but it will recover fast enough for when it is needed.

He makes his way up and out of the Mogu’shan Palace, the low light and colorful decorations helpful to make him invisible to their eyes.

The Vale of Eternal Blossoms, intact, unfurls beneath his gaze for the fourteenth time. It’s so repetitive. Wake in the engine, let the mechanisms catch and release him into the time stream, deal with the mogu one way or another, intact Vale.

It’d been mesmerizing the first three times.

The fourth, he’d been too drained, too used to the sight to even think of appreciating it. Now, it represents the start all over again; it represents another failure.

He gives an annoyed huff and begins his walk towards the Golden Stair.

\---

Leaving the Vale is far easier than entering it could ever be.

It helps, he supposes, that Chi-Ji’s blessing remains.

The Red Crane is waiting for him on the other side of the doors. He’s already so tired of all of this, that he can’t even bring himself to bow.

“I,” he tells the Celestial, even as the Pandaren attendants look _deeply_ offended, “am taking a vacation. This is the fourteenth,” he stresses, a maniac note entering his voice.

The Crane studies him for a moment. And then has the audacity to _laugh_. “Yes, my fledgling. I know, I have been with you since the beginning. Go, go rest. Restore your hope.”

The attendants all startle at his title, even as he slumps his shoulders in relief. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Chi-ji bends, and he closes his eyes as the beak nuzzles the side of his face so very gently, “Go, my fledgling. Take this one for yourself.”

He breathes deeply, and for the first time since this mess began, it doesn’t feel like there’s lead in his lungs.

Chi-ji is kind enough to offer him an enchanted vessel out of Pandaria, to one of the ports. He takes the path to Kalimdor. Fewer people to recognize him, fewer to comment on his odd appearance, fewer to make a fuss about where he belongs.

At this moment, like he told Chi-ji, he just wants to rest, and.

Out of all the people he grew close to in each iteration, there’s one that gives him the feeling of safety he wants. One that would care for him, little to no questions asked.

Varok Saurfang had done so in the last iteration. Taken one look at the token he carried and opened his arms with but a few questions to situate himself, to know where he had been coming from.

All of the others had to be convinced in some way or another, but Saurfang had given him the means to do so without a word.

He’s so tired.

The week until he reaches Ratchet passes with him sleeping during the day and navigating during the night. Thankfully, Chi-ji’s enchantment holds his boat on course, so he doesn’t need to worry much over course corrections as he wakes.

The vessel obligingly turns into a white and red feather when he lands, and he tucks it into a pocket close to his chest, not about to lose such a gift.

Ratchet is full of neutral goblins, which actually might make it more dangerous than if it wasn’t, as he’s an unknown to any and all of them. Anonymity is useful to stay out of the limelight, but it also makes him vulnerable to small fries. He can’t be awake at all hours of the day to keep watch.

Grabbing a pickpocket by the wrist and dumping them into a garbage can does discourage most small fries, though. The small goblin looks too offended for a pickpocket.

That’s fine. He just needs them to give him a respectful distance.

\---

Orgrimmar is strangely empty when he makes his way there. Left mostly on a skeleton crew, and it makes him glad he’s left the chipped necklace visible over his clothes.

He’s used to this dance, even if it is slightly different with the Horde, of making innocuous comments until someone buckling under stress lets off steam and gives away what he needs.

This round, it seems the clock decided to drop him mid war against the Scourge. Lovely.

He finishes his lunch and drink at the inn, leaving a couple of gold for it. Walks out into the sun, warming his back, and knows it’s going to be a while before he's this sun warmed again. Hopefully, he’ll get a different warmth much sooner.

The portal room is the same as it’s always been, with the most active portal being maintained by the mages taking turns, mostly for supplies, while the others would be activated on demand and in specific hours.

He takes the main one along a small group of adventurers, soon to become champions, when there’s an opening between supply wagons.

Dalaran, untouched by the third coming of Sargeras’ Legion. Floating above Northrend, because Khadgar is nothing if not an elf showboat, but less reconstruction work done on the city itself.

It’s as he’s negotiating a flight down to the Argent Tournament, that he hears the argument.

“I _don’t_ know,” the orc hisses as he’s trying to bargain the flight for a slightly lower price, “They were all just called in, I don’t know why!”

“But I need to talk to Vol’jin!” the little troll follows her desperately, “This many supply, mon!”

“Look,” she turns from saddling her flight beast, “He should be somewhere in the Violet Citadel, alright? All the leaders are. Go look for him there.”

“But…” the troll droops. He realizes not only that he’s been staring, but that he recognizes the troll, “I be running supply, mon, but I don’t be up the ladder to talk to him.”

With a heavy sigh he cuts the negotiating short, because if _all_ the leaders have been called, he knows he’s going to have to be there. He leaves a gold with the Flight Master for his troubles, and waves the orc away. She gives him a suspicious look, as his hood is still up, but the necklace tends to deter most questions.

“Zekhan?” he calls, hoping he’s right, even with the faint trepidation. The small troll turns to him, surprised, and the orc nods in approval, mounting her beast. “I’ve got business in the Citadel, too. Do you want to come with me?”

“Business, mon?” the little troll frowns, “Do I know you?”

“No,” he smiles ruefully, “No, you don’t. I’ve heard your name before, though. Come on, I need to talk to Commander Saurfang.”

“And Vol’jin be there, mon!” Zekhan perks up.

“Yes,” Anduin can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. He’s so young, but he supposes the older ones are all in the fighting itself, leaving the supporting lines to the youngers.

Unfortunately, their walk to the citadel is mostly quiet. Anduin tries for some leading questions, but Zekhan, despite his age, has been taught quite firmly that some subjects are not to be said to unknown people. The little troll answers with short words, clearly thinking hard on what he _can_ say.

It makes Anduin chuckle as he pats the troll’s head, to his squawking offense.

The doors of the citadel have never felt this foreboding.

“It be big, mon,” Zekhan whispers to him, “Intimidating.”

“I know,” Anduin whispers back, “Me too.”

The guards let them pass with suspicious looks, Zekhan for his age and Anduin for his cloak. The orc guards recognize his necklace, though.

One of them even goes so far as to point them where they need to go, a secluded war room.

How odd. The mages here don’t much like secluded planning, confident in their means to suss out spies and infiltrators.

Usually, war planning is taken into rooms of the citadel, but open to all who can even reach it. To be in a secluded room, with _locked doors_ is… he frowns.

The orc guard at the door takes one look at them, at his necklace, and knocks.

It opens to an annoyed mage.

“Visitor to Commander Saurfang,” the orc mutters.

“And Chieftain Vol’jin,” Anduin adds quickly, gesturing at Zekhan.

The mage huffs at them and closes the door. Zekhan droops, about to leave, but Anduin sets a hand on his shoulder, wordlessly telling him to wait.

It takes but a few minutes of waiting before both leaders open the door, Vol’jin at first inscrutable, then pleased with the interruption, quickly taking Zekhan and leaving, while Saurfang rolls his eyes at the troll then looks at his own visitor.

Something odd crosses his face, and Anduin tilts his head in curiosity as it settles into exasperated amusement.

For all that so many claimed the old orc’s expressions to be hard to read, Anduin has found that all he needs is to look at the right corner of his face. His exasperation is a tug of skin on one of his tusks, and his amusement a release of tension on his brow. It’s worrying that there are lines of tiredness under his eyes, and it’s an automatic reaction to reach up and smooth them with a thumb.

Saurfang studies him quietly in return, without pushing off his hood. Anduin knows what he catalogues-- mismatched eyes, the scar that starts on his cheek and disappears down his neck, the various little nicks along his face.

“Varok,” he murmurs, letting his lips curl in a tired smile.

The orc hums, eyes on the pendant for a moment before he takes Anduin’s wrist and leads him inside.

Anduin really doesn’t care about war meetings, and could leave the whole mess of war to someone else right now. Saurfang hasn’t said anything, though, hasn’t asked anything, so he lets the old orc lead him inside, where two people are arguing ferociously, with another two trying to be heard, and a multitude of others around the same table watching.

Saurfang, without interrupting the screaming match, quietly takes Vol’jin’s abandoned chair and sets it beside his own, where they then sit.

Anduin pulls his own closer, rests his forehead on the orc’s arm.

“YOU THINK I WOULD LET IT PASS?” One Varian Wrynn is shouting.

“WE WOULD FIND THIS IN MINUTES,” One Garrosh Hellscream is shouting back.

“Could you two please sit down,” the mage at the head is unable to shout them both down.

“Just once,” Anduin mutters only loud enough for Varok to hear, “I wish they’d both end up mute.”

Varok huffs, chuckling. His thick fingers finally push off Anduin’s hood, the tight crown braid that the orc himself, from another time, had woven still intact. Anduin feels those fingers brush over the braid, pressing into the knots, studying the make.

“This isn’t working,” he hears a fretting Chronormu say.

“It’s not like we don’t have time to waste,” Jaina’s voice sounds, exasperated.

“Let them shout,” Thrall sighs, “Dragon, you said it was urgent. The timelines?”

“Yes,” she sounds relieved, “As I said, there’s a time traveler. I don’t know _where_ they landed, but it was about two weeks ago. We need to find this person quickly!”

Anduin raises his head and fixes Saurfang with a dry look.

Varok raises an eyebrow at him.

With a roll of his eyes, Anduin nods, then clunks his forehead back on Saurfang’s chest. “I really, really, just want to sleep,” he mutters. Saurfang’s chest rumbles with another chuckle, muscles relaxing.

Anduin dozes.

By the time the screaming finally dies down, Saurfang’s arm has fallen to his waist, there’s no more light coming in from the windows, and the planning on how to find the time traveller is finally underway. Saurfang is quiet, and Anduin doesn’t really want to move from his place.

“Is this _all_ we can do?” Varian’s dissatisfied voice sounds suddenly louder than the rest.

“Everything else hinges on finding them,” Jaina cuts in before anyone else can, “The rest is speculative, depending on why and how they got here, and who they are.”

Varok’s shoulder is trembling in something that Anduin recognizes is mirth. He gives the orc’s thigh a faint slap.

“Unless any of us has any ideas,” Thrall’s voice comes then, “Cairne? Sylvannas? Lor’themar?”

There must be a negative, even as Anduin hears Jaina asking the same from the Alliance leaders.

“Varok--” Thrall stalls for a moment, “Varok, who is that?”

The room falls silent. A pin could have been heard dropping, for the first time in the entire day.

“Hmm?” Varok answers, clearly entertained, “I don’t know.”

Anduin hits his thigh again.

“What do you mean, _you don’t know?_ ” Varian’s voice manages to sound personally offended, “Then what is this… _person_ doing in here?”

Anduin is quite sure that he just bit back a word like _traitor_. With his hood down, his ears are quite clearly human. As comfortably as he is leaning against an orc, he knows that’s an insult Varian takes personally.

“They came here,” Varok answers dryly, “Asking for me personally.”

“And you don’t know who they are?” Garrosh says, derisive.

“No,” Anduin can just picture the old orc giving the mag'har a deadpan look, “I’ve never met them in my life.”

“Then why,” the mage at the head asks exasperated, “Were they invited in?”

“Well,” Varok goes on, still in his dry tone of voice, “What am I supposed to do when someone calls for me, carrying something personal I do not remember giving to them?”

“Kill an infiltrator,” Garrosh growls.

“I would have,” Varok goes on, Anduin feeling the smirk grow, “If I hadn’t just left a meeting about a time traveler.”

The silence drops back.

“You’re not supposed to be here!” Chromie gasps, suddenly.

_Oh no._

Varok rumbles a laugh as he feels Anduin droop further into him.

The room begins to descend into chatter once again, but it pauses when he raises his head from the orc’s chest to glare at all of them, annoyed.

Varian freezes, his entire face going suddenly white, undecided between anger and longing, but settling into betrayal. Maybe, Anduin thinks while not letting go of his frown, he looks closer to his mother than he’s ever realized.

“I was warm,” he says to the room at large, “I want to sleep. That’s all. Thanks.”

“We need to get you back to your own timeline!” Chromie interjects.

“Sure,” he tells her, faintly frustrated, “If you or any other bronze can find it, I’ll be happy to go back. In the meantime…” he clunks his head back against Varok’s chest.

Chromie’s shrill voice is still sounding, while the rest of the room has finally returned to the chatter.

“Dragon,” Varian’s serious voice cuts suddenly, “Did you say from which time he came from?”

“Huh?” she squeaks, “F-from the future! I can’t tell how many years, though!”

Ah, a record, Anduin thinks. This is the fastest Varian has recognized him.

“Anduin,” Varian calls, voice grave, “You should come with us to Stormwind.”

“Anduin,” Varok sounds, surprised, “as in, Anduin Wrynn, your son?”

“Yes,” Come from between Varian’s teeth.

“Interesting,” the orc pokes the middle of his back, “And you have my necklace. That’s a story to tell, I’d say.”

“Varok?” Thrall asks, surprised.

“I’m not surprised you can’t tell, _Go’el_ ,” Varok hums, “My necklace is meant to be given to my battle partner. And this,” he fingers the crown braid, “Was made by my hand. I recognize it.”

There’s a choking sound from where Varian was standing. “He is not going with you!”

“He doesn’t look like he wants to go anywhere near your city, either,” Garrosh says, as close to delight as he can sound.

Pride, Anduin huffs, is the most ridiculous thing in existence.

Garrosh and Varian return to their bickering.

“Well, well,” Lor’themar’s voice sounds close, “An orc’s _battle partner_ is an interesting choice to become. Especially coming from Varian Wrynn’s son.”

“It’s telling,” Sylvanas chimes in, a smile in her voice, “That he prefers the Horde to his own father.”

He twitches. Varok shifts in his seat. “That is uncalled for, Banshee Queen,” he throws quietly, “You do not know the reason.”

“Neither do you,” she hisses back.

“No,” the orc’s voice lowers with danger, “I will find out in time. Meanwhile, insult my _battle partner_ again, and I will call for Mak’gora right here.”

Interesting, he thinks, opening his eyes to the leather on Varok’s chest. This is the first time Saurfang has thought of Mak’gora against Sylvanas in all of these timelines, with the exception of his original. And he does it in _Anduin’s_ honor.

“I think that’s unnecessary,” Lor’themar murmurs, soothing, “We could always ask the boy.”

 _Boy,_ he thinks derisively. When he’s lived fourteen lives, not all of them with a human’s lifespan. Let them talk, they’ll find out soon enough, as soon as they get tired of bickering.

 _If_ they get tired of bickering.

\---

“Are you done,” Anduin cuts in before Garrosh and Varian can descend into another shouting match.

“Anduin,” Jaina fidgets with her staff, “What happened that you… came here?”

“Nothing that matters right now,” he says in the ensuing silence, stealing the glass of water in front of Varok and gulping it down. He sighs, relaxing, “The real mess is in about, hmm, ten years. I really just want to sleep for a while.”

“You do seem tired,” Varok leans back into his chair, “If I remember right, in ten years, Anduin Wrynn will be… 20 years old?”

He sets the glass down, frowning at a wall. “Huh, yeah. That’s when it went downhill for me. Oh, well.”

“It certainly seems like it, if an _orc_ is a good company.”

Anduin turns to Varian with a level gaze, but stays silent. Raises an eyebrow.

Varian twitches, clearly expecting him to talk. “What!” he finally explodes.

“Nothing,” he says and sips the glass of water that had been in front of Lor’themar. Varok is shivering with restrained laughter.

“It’s _not_ nothing!” he cries, aggrieved, “Why are you…” he makes vague gestures in Varok’s direction, clearly restraining himself from further insult.

“Finish that sentence,” Garrosh is actually smiling, even as it’s rather predatory.

“Both of you, shut up,” Anduin rolls his eyes, “I have heard enough of you for too many lifetimes. Light, if I could have a scale for each bickering I’ve seen, I’d have a dragon.”

The oddity of the comment makes the room slowly go quiet again.

“And what would you do with a dragon?” Varok asks, interested.

“Probably make him eat his own Jihui pieces,” he answers carelessly, “Would deserve it too, the asshole.”

“I understood half of that,” Jaina mutters, massaging her forehead.

“It doesn’t matter,” Garrosh rumbles, “Why should we believe what a _human_ says about danger to the Horde?”

Thrall sighs, but Anduin--

Anduin has learned to play Garrosh like a violin. “Mostly because it was a danger to Azeroth, which, I’m sure you’re aware, you’re living in right now.”

Garrosh laughs at him. “As if you little humans aren’t plotting to disband the Horde and enslave all of us,” he spits to the side, “weaklings, using underhanded methods to win.”

“Hmm, so using all the strengths at our disposal is cheating at the game,” he runs a finger over the lip of his glass, “Not a strategic move?”

There is a momentaneous silence as Varian’s head snaps to Anduin’s direction. From the corner of his eye, he can see Jaina press a hand to her face, and Varok’s hand tightens on his waist.

He keeps his eyes on Garrosh as he raises the glass and sips the water.

“A strategic move,” Garrosh’s mouth curls is clear disdain, “What do you know of strategy, brat?”

Anduin _smiles_. “Nothing, I’m sure. Certainly not how to gain exactly what I want.”

Even the most obtuse of them can read the sarcasm in his voice. Garrosh leans back in his chair, frowning.

Deliberately, Anduin leans back against Varok.

Varian’s face makes a litany of complicated expressions, and even the dwarves look astonished.

“Well,” Garrosh makes an expression of mixed respect and offense, “You certainly seem to know how to keep an enemy close.”

Anduin’s smile turns sly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hellscream. None of _my_ enemies are in this room.”

Sylvanas lets an odd cough from her mouth, and Jaina snorts, suddenly.

There is no more bickering, but the harried mages quickly decide that the meeting should be adjourned until the next day.

With a yawn, Anduin agrees.

“You,” a stuffy mage calls stiffly, “We need to have a binding on you.”

It takes Anduin a moment to realize the mage is talking to _him._

He can’t recognize the mage, which is interesting, considering his fourteen loops. He’s also holding a pair of bracelets-- and those he recognizes, from his second loop. He’d made the mistake of accepting them, then.

“Aren’t those soul-binding cuffs?” he smiles at the mage, and watches with satisfaction as the mage pales. Jaina’s chair screeches as she rises.

“You’re not putting those on him,” she says, frosty, “Those are for _criminals_. Criminals accused of _genocide_.”

“They’re necessary!” the stuffy mage snaps back, “He’s a time traveler, we don’t know what he’s capable of! These are the only means to keep track of him and curb dangerous behavior!”

Even Garrosh turns an incredulous eye to the mage, who flushes.

“He _is_ right,” Anduin says, inciting a snarl from Varian, “It’s a pity I’ve learned how to disable them.”

“They can’t be disabled by the-- charge,” and oh, but it was so clear he’d changed from ‘prisoner’ at the last moment. Anduin flicks a glance over his face, memorizes him, “Maybe you’ve learned to disable it placed on others, but--”

“Oh no,” Anduin kindly interrupts before the mage finishes, “I learned how to without magic. It’s easier to do it like that, since it blocks any kind of energy from entering or leaving the body.”

Both Sylvanas’ and Lor’themar’s presences turn suddenly frosty beside him.

“Rest assured,” he tells the mage with a blank smile, “I won’t run from a second meeting. We do, after all, have a war to win, no?”

He leaves the room while they are still reeling, unwilling to continue facing that travesty.

Varok finds him on the steps of the Violet Citadel, and after a moment of hesitation, sets his hand on the back of Anduin’s neck.

“How bad?” is the only thing he asks.

“Completely cut off from my magic,” he answers quietly, “More or less captured and made to tell all the secrets I could remember. Frozen in place by a word, made to obey without chance at protest.”

It hurt to remember. Faces of people he’d known and looked up to, drilling him for everything he had and even what he didn’t have. Taking and taking and taking. Fitting then, that in that loop he’d grown close to Sylvanas Windrunner.

“They won’t,” Varok murmurs, and his hand curves rather gently around his ear until it’s cupping his cheek, “I promise.”

Anduin leans into the touch, looking up into the orc’s eyes. He smiles softly. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> If I ever do end up writing more of this, it'll be a series, but we'll see if my writer's block allows it.


End file.
